‘Round here, the girls writhe silent conversation with the dry-hump-grind of their gaze, like pulling a suicide bombers rip chord.
Generations of sorrow, swirl and stand erect in a vacuum of her counterfeit sophisticated beauty, like resurrection.
She was born before the bendable legs revolution, melted on her knees inside that Beat Up Barbie body, like plastic painted lies.
Filled with paper handshake promises from IOU goodbyes that threaten death, like stab wounds.
She sees the world through wishing well chasms, black from dirty pocket change regret, like darkness burned on secrets.
And she always betrays herself with that slow defeated flutter from three day thick mascara, like neon strip club arrows.
A broken-hearted history of solitude and abuse leak through Saran Wrap eyeliner, like reused condoms.
Still, she massages knotted tensions with feeble eyelash arms dressed in boxing gloves of waterproof sexual deviance, like comfort.
Her will is strong enough to move mountains with gravitational sex, helping her force to raise lust…only to let it fall, like apples.
Shifting glances elegantly with hand-me-down expertise, careful not to crack that $7.99 Maybelline masterpiece, like watching for a ghost.
She breathes childhood memories: inhaling Wonderbra miracles, and exhaling strokes of oral sex invitation, like panhandling pity.
Her self inflicted smile speaks of mutilated masochism, like a Halloween mask.
Above, sit eyelashes stinging of sadism…licking attentions, like the paper cut sting of a wet leather whip.
Yeah, the girls around here, they ITCH for affection; they wear their makeup like shadows and give a stare, like digging.
They reach and scream for love with twisted desperation…and blink…with eyes, like begging.